


quiet company

by dollsome



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-11-02 01:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20572169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/pseuds/dollsome
Summary: Serena is sent back to Gilead. June pulls some strings to keep her close. Set after season three.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to PURE NONSENSE LAND! This was originally supposed to be a little ficlet for allegroandoldlace on Tumblr for the prompt "June/Serena + 'I'll stay right here, okay?'". Instead, it has grown into a beast! A very self indulgent beast.
> 
> I have no idea if anything that happens in this makes sense within the world of Gilead, but a) season 3 made some iffy writing decisions, so I feel validated to just do whatever, and b) I just need June and Serena back in each other's orbits stat, okay? Also, I tend to only watch the episodes of this show once because that's all my heart can take, so I apologize for any glaring canon-contradicting errors!
> 
> There will be two more installments after this one that I'm putting the finishing touches on!

_ It's a terrible love and I'm walking in  
_ _ its quiet company. _

(The National)

* * *

It takes everything June can think of, and then a little extra, to save Serena Joy Waterford from the wall.

Of course, it’s understandable why she fled to Canada: the woman was mad with grief at the loss of her child. But even that’s no excuse for betrayal. For bargaining with the enemy.

June sits with Joseph Lawrence in his study for hours once the news comes that Serena’s getting sent back to Gilead. Joseph brings the news, first, that Serena will certainly be executed. Gilead is reeling after the loss of the fifty children. They need someone to punish, even if it’s someone who couldn’t have done it. (Or did she? There are new whispers about the Waterfords, about what they might have been willing to do to get their daughter back.) Off with her head.

“No,” June says. She feels it, that terrifying sureness, at the center of her for the first time since she got shot and didn’t die when she should’ve.

“This isn’t really a ‘no’ situation,” Joseph replies wearily.

June makes it one.

* * *

The Colonies are the next proposed option.

No.

What Serena Joy Waterford deserves, June decides and Joseph repeats to the people who listen, is humiliation. And she deserves to be seen. Execution would be a spectacle, but a too-quick one. Nobody knows what goes on for sure in the Colonies; that might as well be on the moon.

But if she stays here, in Gilead, under their eyes and stripped of her position -- well then, she’ll be an example for all to see.

For awhile, June toys with the idea of making her into a handmaid.

But that will never do. Being a handmaid, after all, is an honor.

They settle on Martha instead.

“This will show everyone,” June says, watching Joseph’s eyes gleam behind his glasses in the dark, “what happens when you try to hurt Gilead. Anyone can fall to scrubbing shit off shoes if you don’t follow the rules. It doesn’t matter how powerful you are.”

“And yet it lacks the panache of killing,” Joseph says. “They really, really like the killing.”

“There’s nothing this place likes more than seeing a woman brought to her knees,” June counters. “Trust me. If we frame it like that, they’ll go for it.”

Joseph eyes her, doubtful, from over his folded hands.

“It will look good for you, too,” June says. “Getting back into the world again now that--” She stumbles over the thought of Eleanor. “--that your attention’s not elsewhere. It’s a chance for you to prove your loyalty again. Be a part of punishing those who disrespect Gilead.”

“Yipee,” says Joseph. But he listens.

* * *

They go for it.

It’s easy, after that, to get Serena assigned to the Lawrence house. Who could possibly be in need of more help than a grieving man who’s just lost his wife?

Lose a wife, gain a wife.

It’s a very neat arrangement, when you think about it. Gilead loves to keep things neat.

* * *

It’s surreal to see Serena dressed in that sickly flat green, her blonde hair tucked under a scarf. She arrives at the household with a nervous docility that makes June think, for the first time in a long time, of Eden.

They coexist for days in silence. June wants to talk to her, almost craves the barbed monstrosities they once tossed back and forth like banter from a black-and-white movie. But Serena isn’t talking, and June doesn’t want to be the one to break first.

She asks the other Marthas about how she’s doing instead. Word is Serena is quiet. She doesn’t know how to cook or clean, but she learns quickly enough and she doesn’t complain.

“That’s new,” June scoffs.

“Did it occur to you,” says Beth, “that you put a Gilead loyalist right in the middle of the resistance network?”

No.

“We can turn her,” June says, trying to sound like it was always the plan.

“_You _ can turn her,” Beth corrects. “I want nothing to do with her.”

“Why did you save her?” Sienna asks June.

June realizes too late, the most recent too-late realization in a long line, that she should have factored Sienna and Beth into the equation. It’s their daily lives that will be affected most. All she had thought about at the time was Serena, or maybe herself.

She folds her arms over her chest. “I didn’t save her.”

“She’s scrubbing floors instead of hanging on the wall,” Beth says. “You saved her.”

“Death was too easy for her. To someone as proud as she is, believe me, this is worse.”

Sienna and Beth seem unconvinced. Sienna and Beth, June is starting to suspect, harbor suspicions that June is nuts. Who knows? They might be right.

But she means it. She does. Serena doesn’t get to run off to Canada and live happily ever after with June’s daughter, and Serena doesn’t get to shuffle off this mortal coil and escape.

_ If I didn’t die, _ June thinks, _ then you don’t get to either. We’re in this together, bitch._

* * *

The first thing Serena says to June, back turned as she hunches over a sink of dirty dishes one afternoon, is, “What happened to Eleanor?”

It’s the first time the two of them have been alone in a room together.

June stops. The cupboard with the glasses in it is suddenly as far away as Canada. “She died.”

“I know she died. What happened?”

“She was sick a long time.”

“Well,” Serena says at last, a note of real sorrow in her voice, “she’s at peace now.”

“I hope so,” says June. She digs her fingernails into her palms.

"Why are you still here?"

"What do you mean?"

"The Ceremony can't go on without a wife."

"The Commander asked if I could remain with him during this difficult time. There are plenty of potential new wives out there. He's just taking time to grieve before he remarries. Then things will be back to normal."

The dishes clink against each other in the soapy water. “You didn’t have to do this. For me.”

_ Yes, I did _ wants to leap out of June’s mouth.

Yes, she did.

Letting Serena die was unthinkable. Sometimes it feels like fighting Serena is the only thing that’s kept June standing this long. She doesn’t know how to exist in Gilead without her. She sure as hell didn’t flourish in that short time apart. If she doesn’t have Serena -- to hate, to hope for, to try to twist into something better -- then what’s left?

“Maybe a quick death’s too good for you,” June says airily, and walks out of the kitchen without the glass of water. Her mouth is dry. Her heart pounds like it’s ready to give out. She glances back, just once, to see Serena staring at her with a kind of desperate openness. _ Stay _, begs that gaze.

June keeps walking.

That look haunts her for hours afterward. It’s nice, in a way. It distracts her from the ghost of Eleanor Lawrence, little shards of memory that keep stabbing her when she turns a corner or steps into a room. Serena is the kind of Wife that June was made for. Gentleness and goodness are wasted on June. Gentleness and goodness should probably steer clear of her.

Who knows what she’ll do to a kind heart?

* * *

Joseph doesn’t like visitors, but he has to let them in now. It’s the only way to make the plan come true. Commanders and Wives pour into the house, ostensibly paying their respects to the poor widowed man but really to gawk at Serena, the Wife who betrayed them all. Serena pours them tea with barely shaking hands. She isn’t allowed to wear the glove Rita made her anymore; turquoise wouldn’t do, after all, and nobody is going to take the time to make her a new one.

June watches sometimes, from the hallway or a quiet corner, and stares at the mutilated finger, and inside she screams, _ What else did you expect? What else did he deserve? _

Naomi Putnam looks miserable for the entirety of her and her husband’s visit. At the end of it, she steps into the hall while her husband is still talking to Joseph and asks June where Serena is.

“Busy, I’m sure,” June says evenly.

“Tell her …” Naomi begins. Her eyes are full of pain. She reaches out like she means to touch June’s arm, then thinks better of it. Commander Putnam comes and saves her from having to finish what she started.

June files the moment away in her head. Something they can use later, maybe.

* * *

When Aunt Lydia comes to call, she lets crumbs from the muffin Serena served her fall onto the parlor carpet like snow.

“Your new girl will take care of that, I suppose,” she says, jolly.

“New girl,” Joseph calls, “take care of that, will you?”

Serena comes when she’s called. Aunt Lydia watches with satisfaction as the new Martha sits at her feet, brushing crumbs from the carpet. It takes forever, a fairytale curse like Cinderella picking up lentils.

“You must be thankful to be placed in such a household, Serena,” Aunt Lydia says, savoring the power that accompanies speaking her first name.

“Yes, Aunt Lydia,” Serena answers flatly.

“Or perhaps it brings back painful memories of your former life,” Aunt Lydia goes on, “to be reunited with this particular old acquaintance.”

In that same voice of toneless politeness, Serena replies, “I’m very grateful to be here. And I’m glad to see Offred so well.”

_ You idiot, _June thinks, sitting on the sofa with a teacup in her hand. (It could have been worse. It could have been ‘June.’)

“Ofjoseph, you mean,” Aunt Lydia corrects, her face alight with malice.

“Of course,” Serena says, looking down.

“Such slip-ups won’t do, Commander Lawrence,” Aunt Lydia tells Joseph, her voice ringing through the room like God’s. “You must keep an eye on this one.”

“Count on it,” Joseph says.

Serena keeps on sweeping crumbs into the dustpan. Her knees press into the carpet.

* * *

“This must be a very strange turn of events for you, Ofjoseph,” Aunt Lydia says later when she goes with June into the kitchen. June offered to pack up a basket of muffins to send with Aunt Lydia on her way out. Anything to tug her attention away from Serena.

“Indeed, Aunt Lydia.” June puts the muffins in a basket, fighting the urge to squish one into crumbs at the bottom of it. No more tiny rebellions. Not now that she’s finally started winning big ones.

“God will always put things right. He saw into the heart of that woman, and knew it was unworthy of her station. We must all of us strive to be worthy, and not give way to worldly temptation.”

“Of course.” June hands the basket of muffins to Aunt Lydia.

Aunt Lydia smiles at her. “Scrumptious.”

She takes a few steps towards the door, then turns back.

“Do you need something else?” June asks.

Aunt Lydia clicks her tongue thoughtfully. “Don’t let that woman get too close. She’ll try to weasel her way into your heart, I think. She has always had a particular interest in you; I’ve noticed over the years how her eyes always follow you in a room. It made sense, of course, when you carried her child, but it went on even after that.” Aunt Lydia pauses, trying to puzzle out how to word her advice. “You know, Ofjoseph, women can be harder to resist than men.”

“Oh?” June quirks an eyebrow.

“I mean nothing sinful by that, young lady. Who among us doesn’t yearn for friendship? Which is perfectly acceptable, with the right company. But she only wants what she can take from you, dear. The pain of such manipulations can be quite hard to bear. Don’t let her close enough to take anything.”

June nods. “I won’t, Aunt Lydia.”

“Good girl,” Aunt Lydia says, pressing a hand briefly to June’s cheek before she goes. "I think this household has been good for you."

"Me too," June says, and thinks of Eleanor drifting away.

* * *

Serena steps into June’s bedroom one morning and catches June naked. She isn’t used to knocking, accustomed to being the mistress of all the halls she walks.

“Oh,” she says, and turns.

June pulls her slip quickly over her head, but decides to take her time putting on her dress. Serena is here to suffer, after all. Might as well make her uncomfortable.

“What happened to you?” Serena turns her head just slightly, not quite letting herself look.

“Bullet.” June clutches the folds of red fabric against her chest, like a Russian princess with a muff of white mink.

That answer’s intriguing enough to snuff out Serena’s modesty. “I didn’t hear about a handmaid getting shot.”

“That’s because we didn’t tell anyone. Commander Lawrence and I decided it was best not to provoke any suspicion. Especially with all of those children smuggled out.”

Serena steps closer, her face lighting up in a way June has learned not to trust. “I knew it was you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” June says lightly. “I had pneumonia. Bedridden for weeks. Too sick to see anybody.”

Serena’s mouth curves in what might be a smile. In what might even be admiration.

Or maybe it’s the satisfaction that comes with knowing you’ve got a bargaining chip now, and can fight your way out of domestic servitude.

Whatever it is, it’s gone fast. Serena gets back to business. “I need your laundry.”

June gestures to the pile on the floor.

Serena stares down at it, then looks back up at June with dawning umbrage.

June gives her a pert smile. “Thanks,” she says, and slips her dress over her head, lost for a moment in a red cocoon. When she emerges, Serena is gone, and the pile of clothes is too.

“Great service,” June mutters to the empty room, and laughs to herself. Maybe it’s not a good sign, laughing alone in your room. But at least she’s laughing.


	2. Two

The next time it’s only the two of them, June is bringing the shopping back from the market. Together, she and Serena unload the grocery bags, drifting back and forth through the kitchen as they put things in their places. She used to do this exact thing with Luke. Now the thought of a man coming into the kitchen, opening cupboards, strikes her as vaguely distasteful. A little shocking.

You always like to think you’re immune to brainwashing. June used to be like that about online ads. _ Oh, those don’t work on me, _ she would always say whenever some think piece came out about how easy humans were to control in the internet age.

Not just the internet age, it turns out.

“The apples were really nice today,” June says, making empty conversation, “so I got extra. I thought maybe you could make a pie. Joseph was talking about apple pie yesterday, and honestly, if he wants to eat anything these days, the best thing for us to do is just make it happen.”

She’s taken to calling him Joseph so easily since she came back to this house. Maybe because his wife isn’t here to. Sometimes she feels the troubling impulse to cover him in a blanket or press her fingers against his forehead. Caregiving instincts with no place to go.

“I’ve never made a pie,” Serena replies.

June gives her a look. “Really, Miss Get Back In The Kitchen?”

“I was busy making a career out of telling women to get back in the kitchen,” Serena says, a self deprecating note in there that June hadn’t thought her capable of. “And I grew up with maids.”

“It is,” says June, "incredibly easy to hate you.”

It feels good to say it, knowing there’s no way for Serena to strike back. Like when you finally admit you’ve got a crush on somebody in high school and get it all out in the open.

But, you know. Loathing instead of butterflies.

“The feeling is mutual,” Serena says crisply, putting vegetables away in the refrigerator. 

“Anyway,” June goes on, “there’s no time like the present, is there?”

“If the apples are nice, then I don’t want to waste them.”

“I can show you how to do it.”

“You make pie?”

June looks over at her. “Is that, like, a big shock to you?”

“You don’t seem very … culinary.”

“Thanks.”

“Did your mother teach you when you were young?”

June laughs shortly. “My mother thought the last place a woman belonged was the kitchen. I taught myself. I went on this big kick after watching Julie and Julia. Googled many recipes. Watched many YouTube videos. That phase lasted about three months until Moira begged me to stop trying to make duck-themed dishes happen. But I figured out how to make a mean apple pie. And now I can show you.”

“You don’t have more important things to do?” Serena asks, almost shy. She really makes the humble thing work for her, drab dress and all. The kerchief gives her sort of a wholesome Swiss milkmaid energy.

And yes. There are more important things.

But right now, life is waiting. Waiting for Gilead to look the wrong way, to settle down, to stop suspecting. Then blow it up again, and do it right.

So now, there’s time for pie.

“Nah,” June says, shrugging.

“All right then,” Serena says, pleased. She has that warmth around her that comes out whenever she decides to fleetingly like June.

June inspects the pantry, checking for all the necessary ingredients. She feels the impulse, for a second, to consult a cookbook, before she remembers where she is.

“Do you ever just catch yourself--” she starts to say, but then Serena cuts her off.

“I saw her.”

The air changes.

“I … I thought you would want to know.”

“You did?” June doesn’t have to ask who she means. She leaves the pantry behind. Begins to arrange the new apples on the counter.

“A few times. Supervised visits, of course. You wouldn’t believe how big she’s gotten. And she’s so smart; you can tell. Her eyes have this _ light _. Oh, Off--oh, June, she’s so beautiful.”

June feels it like a blow. She wonders how long Serena has been desperate to do this, to let all her love spill out to the only person hungry enough to listen.

“She looks like you,” Serena adds after a moment. The olive branch.

“I’m glad,” June says, “that she’s well.”

She looks down to see that her fingernails have cut small half moons into one of the apples. Crescents of gold sneak out from behind the peel.

“She is well. Moira and Luke are taking good care of her.”

“Good.” At least there’s that fact to cherish. June chokes back the urge to beg for details. About their clothes, what they said, whether they coughed or sneezed or yawned. Luke always gets congested when he eats too much dairy, but God forbid he ever submit to an allergy test. The stupid arguments they used to have about that. Does Nichole relax in his arms like Hannah did; does she trust him like that? At this point, she’ll take anything, anything about them.

She stays quiet.

“They weren’t shy,” Serena says when June doesn’t answer, “about how much they hate me.”

“Good,” June says again. She laughs a little, imagining what Moira must have said.

Serena slams a cupboard. The fury rises up in her just as fast as it always used to. “I lost my husband. I lost everything I’ve ever had. Someone I trusted made it very clear he thinks I’m a monster who deserved to come back here and be killed. My old friends drop by to revel in how far I’ve fallen. The Marthas in this house avoid me at all costs. I’m picking up your damn laundry. I gave up everything for just a _ chance _to be with her. A chance that didn’t happen. You’d think you could at least recognize that.”

“He? So you met a boy?” June draws the syllables out like it’s middle school. Sometimes pettiness is the best weapon.

“You’re despicable,” Serena hisses. “How God has seen fit to grant you so many second chances, I’ll never understand--”

“Yeah? Well, I’m your second chance. I’m the reason you aren’t dead,” June snarls, a strange lightness filling her as she lunges into Serena’s space. Finally, someone as angry as she is. Someone who wants to hurt instead of fade away. “The _ only _ reason. Your bloody carcass would be hanging on the wall right now if it weren’t for me.”

“If it weren’t for you,” Serena says, leaning down to face her, “I would never have thought of doing what I did. I would still be with my husband. I would still have a home.”

“You’re fucking welcome, then,” June says and storms out of the kitchen. She doesn’t stop until she’s in her room, door shut behind her. She stares down at the apple, still clutched in her hand, then takes a bite. It’s sweet and crisp, as perfect as it looked, but her stomach recoils.

She’s not hungry and she is. She imagines shoving Serena down the stairs. Giving her the old Aunt Lydia treatment. Making Emily proud. Emily, and Moira, and Luke. All of the people who really love her, who wouldn’t understand why she fought to save a monster.

Pushing her down the stairs would be easy, compared to living with her under this roof. It’s easier than anyone tells you, making somebody dead. They go off like a light switch.

To distract herself, she tries to remember everything she can about Julie and Julia. Meryl was great, as always. Some good Stanley Tucci character acting. Amy Adams’ haircut was unfortunate, but hey, it’s Amy Adams. That cute actor, Chris something, played her husband -- the one with the crooked smile who looked kind of like Nick. That whole scene with cooking the lobsters, that used to make her laugh.

_ I can't sleep 'cause my bed's on fire. Don't touch me, I'm a real live wire_ _. Psycho killer. _

She hums it idly to herself. Most of the words are gone -- did that song really have words, anyway, or was it one of those ones made up of noises? -- but the tune, that sticks right in her skull.

* * *

June overhears Joseph talking to Serena more than once. He’s tickled by her presence in the household, in a bitter way that suits him. The two of them, Gilead architects, trapped by their own doing in this house, in this country.

“You remember all those cracks about degrees in English?” he says one afternoon when Serena brings him tea in the study. “How you’d wind up serving fries? Exhibit A.”

June lingers outside the half-open door, watching them like a Gothic heroine who should know better.

“When I was a writer,” says Serena, who seems to know on instinct how to handle him, “I’m sure I sold more copies than you did, so we’re even.”

“It’s easy to appeal to the masses. Fill their brains with shallow junk and easy talking points. A Woman’s Place, right? How’d that work out for you?”

Serena doesn’t touch that one. Instead: “I understand why she likes you.”

“She said that?” Joseph sounds a little glad. It makes June’s heart try to eat itself. She slips a little further into the hall.

“No. But I can tell. Ofjoseph--”

“None of that shit with me, please.”

“Fine. _ June _ was an editor, you know.”

“I know.”

“Has she edited any of your work yet?”

“Believe me,” Joseph says wryly, “she never stops.”

“That sounds like her. She’s merciless.” A pause. “But she’s usually right.”

Joseph chuckles. “You know her better than I thought you would.”

“We’ve been through a lot together. I thought I’d never see her again.”

“Miracles happen.”

Serena makes a noise. Not quite a laugh. “Can I get you anything else?” And then, a little too late, “Sir?”

Joseph shakes his head.

Serena takes a few steps, then stops.

“I was sorry,” she says, “to hear about Eleanor. She was a lovely person. I liked her very much.”

She’s so graceful, all of a sudden, that she might as well be dressed in blue. Every once in awhile, she really is the woman she pretends to be.

“Go take a break,” Joseph says. “You’ve worked hard enough.”

June slips out of the hallway before Serena can find her.

* * *

They do get around to that apple pie lesson. It’s weirdly easy to be around Serena when she’s trying to learn something. Gone is the mercurial bitch vibe. Instead, she becomes laser-focused, listening intently to everything June says, watching her hands close. Determined to get it right on the first try.

And she does. The second try’s even better.

The first pie is for Joseph, of course.

The second one, June decides, has potential.

“You should take it to Mrs. Putnam,” June says while the second pie cools, the air alive with cinnamon and apples. “A thank-you for their visit.”

“I can’t go there,” Serena says at once.

Always the coward.

Or maybe she’s just being sensible. The people of Gilead know what she did. Nothing puts a target on your back like that.

Still, June has to push. “She asked about you.”

“She did?” Serena’s voice is too casual as she washes the baking dishes.

_ Gotcha_.

“She seemed worried.”

Serena stares at her for a long time. June stares back, lifting her chin slightly in a challenge.

“Fine,” Serena relents.

Later June watches from the window as Serena leaves, counting each step that she takes away from the safety of the Lawrence house. Out into the big bad world. Never stray off the path.

“You know it’s not a good idea to send her outside,” Joseph says, coming up next to June. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Testing her,” June says.

“Why?”

June doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. Finally, Joseph sighs and walks away.

Why?

June wonders.

It all boils down, she figures, to a question.

_ Do you have it, too? This luck, this curse, this tether to the world? No matter how bad it gets, no matter how far you fall, something always brings you right back here. _

If anyone else is unkillable around here, it must be Serena Joy Waterford.

At least June’s got company. It’s too heavy a blessing to bear alone.

* * *

Serena comes back an hour later with blood dripping down her forehead. June opens the door for her to find her shaking so hard she can’t catch the door handle and escape inside. As far as the eye can see, it’s a tranquil afternoon out there, orderly and empty.

“What happened?”

“Someone threw a rock when I was walking back,” Serena says dimly. “I didn’t see who. There were guardians around, but they couldn’t be bothered to do anything.”

“Gilead’s a scary place when you’re not wearing blue,” June says.

Serena doesn’t take the bait and snap back. She just stands there, shaking so hard that June trembles too.

“Come on,” June instructs, feeling guilty.

She leads Serena into the kitchen and fetches the first aid kit. Beth and Sienna are inside, but they clear out, not bothering to ask what happened. They’ve stayed carefully ice cold around Serena. Probably a smart move, all things considered.

On the stove, there’s a pot of something making bubbly witch cauldron sounds. It smells sweet and autumnal -- squash soup, maybe, or carrot. It goes nicely with the lingering smell of the pie.

Meanwhile, Serena leans against the counter, taking calming, yoga-class breaths that June pretends not to notice.

“Did you see Naomi?” June asks as she wets a clean rag. “Take that off,” she adds, gesturing.

Serena obediently pulls off the scarf that covers her hair. “No. No, just the Martha.”

June begins to dab the blood away. Serena flinches at the first contact, then settles. “It’s still good you did it. You never know when tiny courtesies will pay off.”

Serena nods barely, or maybe it’s just the shaking. She stares off into nothing behind June’s shoulder as June patches her up.

“It’s not too bad,” June reports before she presses the bandage gently on. “I don’t think you need stitches.”

Serena nods. A tear slips down her cheek.

“Thank you, June,” she says deliberately before she leaves. Tiny courtesies.

June watches her go, then looks down at her own hands. A fleck of bright red sits on her fingertip, seeming to glow.

She wipes it off onto the rag that’s already darkened with Serena’s blood.

“Did you stir it?” She looks up to find Beth coming in, all frustration.

June glances at the stove. “I was busy.”

Beth swears under her breath and bumps past June to get to the neglected soup. June decides to leave her alone. She takes the bloody rag with her. It’s her mess. Better not to leave it for somebody else to clean up.


	3. Three

Serena cries at night. June stands outside her bedroom door because she doesn’t have anything better to do. She doesn’t sleep much lately. She presses her fingers to the door as lightly as she can, amused at the thought that Serena doesn’t even know she’s there, that this is June’s house more than Serena’s and she can stand outside whatever god damn door she wants to.

And then one night, for some reason, she knocks. A line of gold around the door frame tells her that Serena’s still awake.

It isn’t like last time, in the Waterford house on the night Fred hit Serena and June stood and watched. Now Serena comes to the door right away. She’s in a white nightgown, her blonde hair loose -- same as June -- and June feels a flicker of want, an itch to move closer. To strangle Serena with those pretty blonde locks, maybe, like in that Browning poem.

“What’s up?” June says, carefully flippant, and breezes past her into the room. She sits on the modest bed. _ This is my house _, and all that. It’s bigger than Rita’s bed back at the Waterfords -- the little indulgences of this house -- but the mattress is still hard.

Serena doesn’t try to brush the tears away. Instead she lifts her chin, defiant. “The nights are hard.”

“Whereas the days are just peachy.”

“They seem to be for you.” She takes a step closer to the bed. “You and your new commander are very buddy-buddy. How is it that you always manage to ensnare them? I have to admit, I don’t see what they see in you.”

“Don’t you? Aunt Lydia says you stare at me.”

June isn’t sure what reaction she wanted, but she likes the one she gets: a flutter of something that might be panic, and then Serena scowls. “Aunt Lydia is deranged.”

“I won’t fight you there.”

Serena doesn’t tell June to get off the bed. She knows that none of this is really hers. Instead, she wraps her arms around herself like she’s outside, shivering in the cold. “It’s lonely here.”

“Hey,” June taunts, salt in the wounds, “at least you’ve got me.”

“Don’t remind me,” Serena says darkly.

“Who do you miss, exactly? It’s not like your life was exactly brimming with affection before.”

“I was hoping maybe at least I would see Rita somewhere.”

“Rita’s in Canada. Rita got out. With the kids.”

There’s a complicated flurry of emotions across Serena’s face. She lands on relief. “Praise be.”

“Praise fucking be,” June agrees.

A wistful smile curves Serena’s mouth. “Maybe she’ll see Nichole.”

“I hope she will,” June answers evenly.

Serena just watches her for a moment, then seems to reach some decision.

She walks over to the bed and sits down beside June. “Do you have any lotion? My hands are a mess.”

“Lotion? Sounds like vanity.”

“It’s not.” The sullen impatience in her tone makes June want to smile. It’s just so Serena. “It’s for medical purposes.”

“What is it Aunt Lydia always used to say? Lotion is the devil’s jizz?”

“She did not.” 

“Maybe not in those exact words,” June admits, “but that was totally the subtext.”

Serena laughs, a tired laugh like surrender that June likes. For just a second, it’s like being in the thick of one of those friendships that eats your life in middle school, those dizzy infatuations with every minute spent together and sleepovers every weekend, trying not to giggle too loud and wake your parents.

So, fine. Something in her turns soft. “Use butter. That’s what we do.”

“Butter,” Serena repeats, wrinkling her nose slightly.

June takes Serena’s hand, pulling it forward to inspect it. Nothing soft about the touch, but it’s a secret relief to touch all the same. She studies the inflamed cracks running over Serena’s skin. These look nothing like the hands that used to touch her in hope or anger, depending on the day of the month.

“Ouch,” she remarks.

“I haven’t done much domestic work before.”

“I’m shocked, pie virgin.”

“I almost like it. After all those days doing nothing. Sometimes I don’t have time to think.”

“The Gilead dream.” She notices Serena’s other arm, the fading but angry line against her pale skin. “Hey. Look at that.”

“I was attacked,” Serena says, “by a madwoman.”

June traces the scar lightly with a fingertip. “Very cool. Something to tell the grandkids.”

Serena pulls her arm away. “You’re lucky I didn’t report you.”

“Why didn’t you?” In the back of her mind, June’s been wondering. Underneath all the planning and killing.

“I don’t know. You seemed to have enough troubles without me.”

June closes her eyes. She wonders, just for a flicker of a second, if she’ll open them and be back on her knees in that hospital room. “I really did.”

“It frightened me,” Serena adds awkwardly, “ to see you like that. I’m glad you’re back to your insufferable self.”

June opens her eyes.

Insufferable. She likes the sound of that. She kicks back in bed, stretching out as best she can. The mattress squeaks in protest.

“What are you doing?” Serena asks.

June ignores her. “Crappy bed.”

“You expected anything else?”

“You gonna set it on fire?”

Serena rolls her eyes and, after a moment’s pause, sits down beside her, stretching her legs out. They barely fit. June wonders, with a tinge of vague hysteria, if Serena wants to wrestle.

It’s hard, suddenly, to think of anything to say. Usually not a problem with Serena. The insults flow like wine.

Her bare shoulder is pressing against Serena’s. Maybe that’s why. It feels so warm and alive in the spot where they touch. The sort of thing you’d notice in the early days of a massive crush. June decides not to read into it. The pickings here are slim. Pressing your skin against anyone’s is a novelty.

In bed with Fred fucking Waterford’s wife. If only he could see her now.

“So you really turned Fred in, huh?” June asks.

“I had to.” Serena’s voice is heavy with defensiveness. “To see her.”

June turns to look at her, resting on a shoulder. Serena doesn’t mimic the pose; she keeps sitting upright against the hard old bed frame. “Was that the only reason?” June asks.

Serena stares down at her left hand.

“He didn’t even understand,” she says after a long silence, “why I couldn’t stand to be near him anymore. He couldn’t fathom it. Being around him, I almost forgot myself why I had any reason to be upset. He made me feel so irrational. So ... “

“Hysterical?” June says dryly.

“Exactly.”

“Was he shocked? When the arrest happened?”

“He looked so confused.” There’s a thickness in Serena’s voice; June can’t tell if it’s smothering laughter or tears. “It didn’t even dawn on him until I told him that it might have been me.”

June shakes her head. “Fucking idiot,” she says, pleased at the mental image. Fred behind bars, pouty and wronged, convinced his only crime was loving his women too well.

“I keep wondering,” Serena says, “how he is. What he’s doing. What they’ve done to him.”

“Who gives a shit?”

“I do.”

June makes a face.

“He’s my husband. I made a vow.”

“I don’t know if that’ll hold up here anymore.”

“My husband in the eyes of God, then.”

“I thought Gilead and God were one and the same.”

“So did I.”

“Do you think he’d forgive you?”

“Oh, no,” Serena says at once, certain.

It would have been nice, June thinks, to kill Fred. The only death that didn’t leave blood on her hands was Winslow’s. At least then, it had been justice. Judith slaying Holofernes. A win for the good guys. Killing Fred would be justice too. He deserves what he’s earned from her.

But rotting in a cell, knowing Serena put him there? If it has to, that will do.

“I know,” Serena says, sitting up taller; it must be uncomfortable as hell, “that he’s a bad man. I know what he did to you, and to your friend, and who knows what other women? He’s a coward, and he does what he can to feel strong. He did it to me too. The last time I saw him, he wrapped his hand around my throat.”

June bristles. In bed with Serena. Just like old times. “It wasn’t only him who did it to me.”

“I know.” Serena’s words are barely audible. She leans away, relieving June from the burden of her touch. Too late, but it’s something.

This is the moment when June should get up and leave. When she should remember that forgiveness is impossible.

She stays.

“Forget him,” she tells Serena. “Thinking about that isn’t going to help you survive in this place.”

Serena exhales sharply. “What will?”

June smiles a little. “Work.”

The quiet stretches out for a long time. Both of them thinking, or maybe both of them too exhausted to for once. It makes sense that Serena is tired. She’s working harder than she has in her life. That will knock you out even with the heaviest burdens on your conscience.

June has sunk into a stupor, trying to find the energy to get up and leave, when--

“Are you going to try it again? To get more children out?”

June tenses. “Why?”

“I want to help.” It sounds like she means it. There’s a sleepy sweetness to the words that sounds so true.

“Why should I believe you?”

“You know me.”

“Yeah. I do know you.”

“I mean you know …” Serena shifts, rolling onto her side, facing June, “how I really feel about all this. About what this world does to children. This can’t be God’s plan for them. I don’t want them to have to stay here. I want them to get the same chance that Nichole did. Especially the girls. Like Hannah--”

“Don’t talk about Hannah.”

Serena goes obediently silent. Even with her face to June’s, she doesn’t look at her.

“You say you want to help,” June says, trying to stay calm. “And yet you would have left them all here, as long as you could be out there with her. With _ my _ daughter.”

“I was going to try,” Serena protests, her voice woozy with sleep. “I was going to do what I could, once I was settled there. The arrest and extradition threw a wrench in that plan.” She goes quiet. Then: “Please believe me.”

June sighs. She hasn’t missed this feeling, her insides warring between faith and sense. She hasn’t and she has. “I know you want to help now. Deep down you always know what’s right. But why should I believe that you won’t give up when it really counts? That’s kind of your thing, historically speaking.”

“I’ve got nothing else now.”

“All the more reason to cozy up to anyone who might spare you.”

“I won’t do that. You think I want to help those people after they’ve turned their backs on me?”

“I think you’re weak.” June is surprised at the softness in her own voice. Like talking to a child. Not mad, just disappointed. “And you’ll give up when things get hard, like you always do.”

Serena doesn’t have a comeback to that one.

That’s it, then.

It must be at least a minute before Serena speaks again. “I know this is … what I deserve. But I don’t know how I’m going to bear it. I need something to make this worth it. I want to help you.”

Don’t believe her. Don’t believe her. Don’t believe her.

“Okay,” June says. A lie, probably. She needs as many cards to play as she can get.

“Okay?” Serena’s voice is pathetic with hope.

“We’ll see,” June adds, knowing Serena won’t trust her if she makes it too easy.

Serena nods.

“And … I’ll be here.” She reaches over and squeezes Serena’s hand, just for a second. “I’ll stay right here, okay? We can bear it together.”

Together in their own little slice of hell. It’s the ending June probably deserves. Finding Hannah again, going home to Luke and Moira and Holly, wherever home is -- that’s what she dreams of. In hazier colors than ever these days. But this, ever after with Serena, seems right. They’ve torn each other to pieces. Now they can cling to whatever remains.

“I know what you’re doing.” The accusation is softened by drowsiness. 

“What am I doing?” June asks, curious.

“Making me feel like I need you,” Serena murmurs, the words blurring together, “like you always do. I know … I know you don’t mean it. You’re just trying to use me for whatever it is you need this time.”

“Maybe before. I did what I had to. Now I’m pretty sure I outrank you. What can you even get me, huh?” She nudges Serena gently.

Serena doesn’t answer.

June looks at her to discover her eyes have closed.

They rest in the quiet for a long time. Ruddy light glows from the lamp on the bedside table. Serena hadn’t bothered to turn it off. June should turn it off, but it would mean getting out of bed or reaching over Serena and she doesn’t want to do either of these things.

Instead, she looks at Serena. Here. Alive. Safe, for the moment. The small cut on her forehead is healing well.

“Serena. I missed you.” June says it so softly she’s not sure if it even counts as a whisper.

Even softer, Serena answers, “Hmm?”

“Eleanor.” Quietly, still. So quietly it might as well be trapped in her head. “You asked what happened. She’s dead because of me. That’s what killed her. She was sweet, you know? Good. I kept expecting her to be like you, to be hard like you, and she wasn’t. I didn’t know how to be around her and not use her. And then when I couldn’t use her anymore, when she turned into a liability …” She sniffs impatiently, swiping her hand over her wet cheek. “You, I get. You know? You and me, we’re a good match. You’ll fight me to the death.”

She contemplates the ceiling. Serena’s old handmaid, she hung herself. So maybe they’re a good match both ways. The only ones who can withstand each other. It’s a little like love.

“He,” June says, not meaning to, “he loved her so much. Joseph. I feel like shit every second I look at him. I don’t know how much longer I can take it, you know? You’re not the only one who doesn’t know how to bear it.” She glances at Serena. Still asleep. The perfect listener. “I should be dead right now. It looked … really bad for awhile. I remember …” When she thinks about it, she can still feel the night air. “... seeing the plane in the sky, and the bullet wound barely hurt even though I knew it should. And then I was with them, with Luke and Hannah, and everything was gold and calm around us and I thought, ‘Finally. Finally, I’m done.’ And then a bunch of people risked their lives … for me. To bring me back. It was a miracle. That’s what Janine said over and over. I wasn’t ever supposed to be back in this house. I wasn’t supposed to be back with Joseph, fucking up his life. I’m pretty sure he deserves it, like you deserve it, but I think I fucked it up enough already. He was off the hook. He was supposed to be free. I wasn’t supposed to make it this time. But I did. And the stars aligned for me again. And I’m here. And I don’t deserve it. God, I wish it had been Eleanor’s miracle instead. I don’t know for sure if I could have saved her. But I didn’t, you know? I didn’t. And here I am in her house--”

“Offred.” Serena’s voice is faint and dreamy. “June. Shhh.”

“You’re not listening, are you?”

“Mm,” murmurs Serena.

June leans in like she would to kiss her temple. “If you call me fucking Offred ever again, I’ll stab you in your sleep, by the way.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Okay,” June says in the tiny voice she used to use with Hannah, ”deal.”

It feels a little better having not-quite-whispered those things into the dull light, a warm body by her side.

She stares at Serena, watching her sleep, listening to the rise and fall of her breathing and the nothingness in the house beyond. Joseph is in bed, not up late thinking and drinking like he might have been once. Maybe he’s staring at the ceiling too. Maybe he likes it in that bed, curled up alone, because he can still feel his wife there. Close his eyes and catch the faint smell of her and pretend, just for a second.

Just for a second.

After awhile, once she’s really out, Serena snuggles closer to June, nestling her head on June’s shoulder. Her breath is warm on June’s neck. Her hands curl around June’s arm, too shy to really embrace her, but wanting to be close. June feels the brush of her mutilated finger: the absence of a fingernail, the way the skin healed over. It’s amazing what will heal. The ways that life won’t let you go.

And speaking of life.

It’s hard to remember the last time she got to touch someone and stay in it. Not since Nick, who feels so far away she almost wonders if she made him up. Or maybe Eleanor -- a reassuring hug or a squeeze of the hand -- only June hadn’t paid attention to how it felt. Only what she needed to get out of it.

She rests a hand lightly on Serena’s head where it leans on her shoulder, cradling her like you’d hold someone beloved. Her hair is greasy to the touch, unused to days of labor and fewer chances to bathe, but it’s soft all the same. June lets her own head droop forward, her nose close to Serena’s, the way she used to curl up with Luke when they were both fried from work and too tired for anything except tenderness.

June has never really looked at her this close. Not in the quiet like this. It’s funny. She almost killed her once, daydreamed of it constantly, would have cut her throat if she’d been able to reach it, and yet she’s never looked at Serena this way, where every pore and eyelash is cause for fascination. If you’re going to kill someone, you should know them this well. Look at them and mean it.

There’s a tear on Serena’s cheek, gleaming ghostlike in the dark, and it takes June a minute to realize that it’s her own, that Serena isn’t crying in her sleep. Careful, so as not to wake her, June brushes it away with her free hand. Serena shifts, moaning softly, but doesn’t wake up.

Sleep doesn’t come for June, but for the first time since she came back from the dead, it feels close.

* * *

June wakes up to find herself alone in bed. There’s no sign of Serena. The bedside lamp has been turned off, but light sneaks through the curtains. Sleeping until daylight is a handmaids-only privilege. Living the dream.

“Walk of shame?” Joseph asks her when they bump into each other in the hall, eyeing her nightdress and messy hair.

“She’s adjusting.”

“Lucky she’s got a friend like you to see her through it.”

“She knows things. We can use her.”

“Oh, was that the reason behind the sleepover? Little game of truth or dare?”

June tries not to glare at him. “She listens to me.”

He tilts his head. “Do you listen to her?”

It’s too good a question. She doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what the true answer is, so she gives him a look that she hopes says _ Of course not _and brushes past him to her room.

On her bed, her clean clothes sit waiting for her: white delicates in one meticulously folded pile, red dresses in another.

She sits down on the bed beside Serena’s hard work and rests her hands lightly against the fabric. She thinks of the hands she examined last night, so different from the ones that she held and hated and clung to in the Waterford house. They’re not pretty hands now, Serena’s, but they’re honest ones. Hands willing to get dirty for a good cause, maybe. Finally.

_ Please_, June asks, maybe even to God. _ Please, this time let her mean it. _


End file.
